All for Naught
by sutaretagaisce
Summary: Pre-series. Worthless acts can have profound consequences.


Not everything has a purpose.

Drosselmyer, for all his genius, could not control each word and every meaning held in his writing. If he had tried then none of his works would have ever become real, no matter how powerful his story spinning powers were. For stories to ever have a measure of realness in them they must necessitate their own existence. And reality is what it is, without judgment or cause.

Meaning was found between the lines, Drosselmyer discovered, because such things were left to the desires of the audience. To seek meaning was why stories were read and endings were reached; and if, for the sake of that end, things of purpose must be sacrificed—lives, loves and happiness, that was more beautiful. Truer than reality if a story reflects the tragedy of living. Or so went Drosselmyer's clockwork thoughts...

However, his hand never managed to grasp at the ending of his experiment. And his two creations, the prince and the raven, stumbled out of his story and into the real world. The only things left to them were the precepts of ink and paper. Yet between the lines read the desires of a dead man that they should somehow go forth and seek the means to end their story.

The storybook prince's life, if it could even be called living, was embodied in a single purpose. The selfsame spark of his written definition remained even when his very heart was scattered to the edges of reality. Beyond that rest of him was ageless and aimless. His days filled with the pretense and requests of others. And he accepted them all without protest because he had no reason to decline and no desire to give birth to reason.

Even those that loved him best thought the prince worthless. Mytho the cruelly indifferent lover, Rue thought in the darkness of her mind. Mytho the reckless and pitiful wretch, Fakir thought with eyes on his birthmark that scarred his chest. Mytho, who could not save himself and had only enough will to save the most helpless of causes. Indeed he was worthless, but not without his purpose. For he needed them, this heartless doll that was part of the story that held them all captive. And they needed him to need them.

They rankled at the burden of their roles sometimes. For all of Mytho's docile nature, he could not be completely ruled. Just as Drosselmyer's words failed to exert total control, so did the demands of living take away the constant guardians. And left to his own devices Mytho wandered about the halted story, doing nothing of any purpose or meaning.

So one day, which day it was did not matter, he wandered away from the smithy and the academy, circling deeper into the forest. As the hours progressed and the sky darkened, it began to rain heavy and cold, which did matter. But it did not _mean_ anything to Mytho.

Mytho felt neither cold nor heat, experienced no hunger nor thirst. Although he did look up at the storm-filled sky with parted lips that could catch the raindrops, it was not a gesture filled with great portent or slaking need. He was not searching for hidden strings or an answer from the storm and thunder.

Still, lightning split the sky as if to goad him into asking something. For the briefest moment everything was illuminated, the light reflected in puddles and the lake, which is where Mytho had eventually found himself.

The prince went astray. Whether by the light, the sodden path, the untold duress he underwent, or some more sinister design, he tumbled to the lakeshore. Drawing his hands back he looked to spy blood on the reeds, sticking in between the clumps where the rain had not washed them all away. Blood and raven feathers.

Even the symbol of his greatest enemy did not illicit a stir of emotion in the prince's dead chest. Black feathers were simply black feathers. But his hands reached out by instinct to push away the reeds and found nestled in its hollow a single egg. If there were others they had been scattered into the churning lake water or shattered by raven's claws.

Mytho stared at the smooth, pale shape of the egg in the dark. What silent thoughts he bore, if he thought them at all, were only lingering as he knelt down in the marsh and placed his hands around the only survivor of this small misfortune. He did not know if he was in time, if the egg was already as frozen and unfeeling as stone. Mytho felt neither cold nor heat, but he pulled the egg to his chest and stayed there anyway.

The marsh pulled him deeper still, up to his waist in the mire. It would be easy if he simply let go of the egg to pull himself out. He who could move so gracefully, if he chose to leave it would be as if he danced on the water. Yet Mytho remained and nestled it closer to him. He bowed to the elements, letting his back be the shield for the icy sleet and the cutting wind. Hunkered down and humble looking, he waited for nothing.

Fakir would find him in the morning eventually. He would be scolded, maybe even cuffed. He would be told not to do it again, and he would agree because Fakir would tell him to agree. Nothing would change. They knew this too, that they could not control him completely, even when he did worthless, useless things like this.

What the future held was of no consequence to him, likewise the past he had forgotten. Mytho felt neither cold nor heat, but he whispered words that had no meaning in order to comfort the egg against the growing storm.


End file.
